02/01/2015

Leaving Paris for Angers on Thursday 15 janvier from Gare Montparnasse included seeing a not surprising police presence at the train station. I liked having it. I did not like that I had no time to eat and ended up only with a sandwich from Paul. Fortunately, those Paul sandwiches are pretty darn good.

Compare and contrast Paris v. Angers:

Getting to Gare Montparnasse in Paris from af83 meeting in the 2eme included an Uber driver who complained the whole way about the rude guy from his last call. I told him, once he dropped me off (not at the place more experienced drivers have used on my other trips to the station), I hoped his day went better. He said that was nice. I ate the sandwich on the train.

On arriving at the station in Angers, I was met by a Premiers Plans representative sent to get me, which meeting was followed by a very nice ride to the festival venue down at the Centre des Congres, in a bright blue BMW SUV. Along the way I learned from the adorable representative, Mathilde, Xavier's assistant, that there was a solidarity march at Angers as well on Sunday. Signs of Charlie Hebdo were here too:

(trans: We are not afraid.)

The mayor of Angers, newly elected Mayor Bechu, gave a stirring opening night introduction to the festival, noting that what better way to heal and support freedom of expression than opening a festival that celebrates young artists from all over Europe--and now the world, with the festival showing new works from young directors in China, Algeria, and for the first time, Austin.

But Liz, what about the food? Right. Getting there. Food and wine were bountiful at the festival, in many shapes and forms. I checked them all out. They included:

1. The cafe/beer/wine and great paninis there on the first floor in a cafe-like setting. Great place to stop for coffee with new friends from the festival.

2. The Bouvet Ladubay lounge. VIP access for the press and others. I had a pass. I loved my Bouvet Ladubay lounge pass. I had a lot of Bouvet Ladubay. I vowed to do a cleanse on my return.

3. Home-cooked, family-style meals for the behind-the-scenes crews down on a lower level.

4. The cocktail party. (There were several almost every night for various corporate sponsors treating their clients.)

My favorite new gastronomic adventure was the French cocktail party, a cocktail "dinatoire" as it would involve hearty food given the hour of 9:30pm is prime dinner time. On opening night we were treated to a pre-opening screening of Force Majeure, followed by an opening night cocktail party. I was starving by then. I had little hope that an elegant opening night cocktail party could stand in for a meal. I was wrong.

Fondation Gan hosted the opening night cocktail party after introducing the big supporters for the festival: Jérôme Clément, President of the Festival, Claude-Eric Poiroux, and of course Mayor of Angers, Mayor Béchu.

With some 500+ people attending this cocktail party, it was hard to get a handle at first on where exactly the food was. Found the wine, no problem, but food was another thing. Finally I figured out it was along the periphery of the room. Then there were these adorable servers.

And, of course, oysters on the half shell.

But this was nothing. Thanks to my friend Francois (Francois "Deux" as we call him), I learned there was serious hearty fare being served too and that I needed to run for it if I wanted to get some. I love that my French friends know me so well and are looking out for me this way. That's what everyone was holding in larger but still small white bowls: the hearty fare. I learn there is fish and something else. I'll take fish.

This fish....it is perhaps my very favorite food on the entire trip. Hot steaming tender white fish, probably cabillaud, in a nice, dainty size for a small bowl portion, served over hot creamy mixture of ... thinly grated leeks I think. It was divine that light fish with still light enough leeks, but so finger-licking good with that savory cream and butter mixture. No doubt a lot of butter and cream was involved. I ignore this, as I am eating fish after all. I grabbed a second bowl too (this was the first serious protein all day).

No picture of this fare. Cannot focus on the food and waste time with pictures. And by then it was every man/woman for himself/herself as, seriously, the food was going fast, just as Francois said.

I told a good friend, during another food/festival recap conversation of how awesome the festival was, that I wanted to track down the caterer and get the recipe for that fish. I loved it that much. He says he's on it. [Nicolas: don't forget. I was very serious about getting that recipe.]

01/31/2015

The Hotel de Ville, Paris (trans: Charlie Hebdo, honorary citizen of the city of Paris)

Food was far from my mind on this Paris trip--which was for business mostly--but which started with a departing flight just 5 short days after the shocking attacks on the satirical magazine, Charlie Hebdo. My alter ego France and Paris life was suddenly all over the news, all the time, with glaring blue/white/red headlines announcing all the time it seemed: "PARIS TERROR ATTACKS."

I could not believe that something so horrific had happened in a corner of the world that I know and love so well and so much--for the people, friends, and memories. Friends and family thought I was crazy to make the trip. To me, it seemed more crazy not to. I was not insensitive to their concerns and assured them of different ways to manage in case things were in fact as remotely awful as the news would have us believe. I thought of the shootings at high schools, movie theaters, and other public places in the US throughout the years. And then again, I had just barely missed getting side-swiped a few times in the past few weeks in crazy Austin traffic. But I also kept in touch with friends in Paris, asking how things really were. All felt fine--that hostage situation deal was a little worrisome they admitted--but they said please, do not worry.

After an early afternoon arrival in Paris on Tuesday via British Airways--first time trying out that Austin-London nonstop--I had much work to do so did not get out much at first those first 36 hours. When I did, it was hard to know if the streets were quiet only because of what had happened, or because it was January, after all, and it was grey and cold. Newspaper articles expressed concern about how all this would impact the infamous "soldes" -- those twice a year official sales where items are dramatically reduced.

I had no problem though marching myself out with friend Maureen that first night, and I was anxious to get out and about after being hovered over a laptop screen for hours. The sensationalist land of US television, with "PARIS TERROR ATTACKS" on every hour, did not relate at all to the quite stillness of the Place du Pantheon we passed on the way to the Cafe de la Nouvelle Mairie for some natural wine and a much-needed food infusion.

Christmas trees in front of the Pantheon.

Below is the first glimpse of things being not a usual day in Paris as before: this signage in front of the Mairie of the 5ème. It was the first something I came across that related to what I had been seeing on the TV for days. It was jarring for the psyche to realize that I was in a place that had been, was, very newsworthy, and for not the best of reasons.

I would soon see the Charlie signs everywhere--including on t-shirts--and with various iterations.

By the time Wednesday night came around, as I walked back from an afternoon stroll waiting for a round of changes on a document I had just sent out, Paris felt more lively. Or maybe it was just me getting used to Paris in this different perspective, after all the US sensationalism and news I too had been watching, albeit from French news outlets.

This little stroll had been a short tour of the left bank to reminisce about the student days in Paris (1980s), and one of my favorite finds way back then: the Poilâne bread and tartines made with it at wine bar Au Sauvignon.

After my little interlude thinking about Paris then and Paris now, night had fallen. Time to get back to Ile St. Louis to meet a friend for dinner. The walk back took me by familiar sites.

Slowly things started to feel more "normal" like the more seemingly carefree Paris before Charlie Hebdo. Yes, there were a few guards here and there on the way to Chez Janou, which reminded that Vigipirate (France's national security alert system, around for decades) was ongoing (not all that different from previous trips). A comfy meal at Chez Janou (confit de canard!) helped getting back a regular Paris vibe. And by the next day, at a meeting in the 2ème of Paris, all Paris was aghast at that Fox News report about "no go" zones in Paris, which also helped bring some levity. The program made the rounds fast in France, leading to some hilarious spoofs on French TV. I read that Paris mayor Anne Hidalgo was filing a lawsuit against the station for tarnishing Paris's image. It seemed Paris was back. At least my perception of a Paris with a sense of everyday normalcy was back.

I would not be around much longer to see the upward trend in mood. It was off to Austin's sister city Angers and the reason for the trip: representing Austin along with Austin Film Society at the European "first film" festival, Premiers Plans. Angers does this festival spectacularly well. Though a big screen with an audience is the best way to see and hear it, the exuberant "bande-annonce 2015" that ran before every screening here. And if I had cancelled that trip, I would not have met and chatted briefly with Gérard Depardieu--thanks to the Mayor of Angers introducing us as Gérard was lunching next to our table with the film crowd. And I would not have figured out that those crazy movies I somehow watched at an impressionable age were Bertrand Blier movies--whose work was a featured retrospective at the festival--and who along with Jérôme Clément, founder of Arte, and Claude-Eric Poiroux were all there at the festival, all milling about at some of the same events I was invited to attend.

By the time I came back to Paris post-festival time, it was way more about the food. And that is why I am on Day 3 of another 21-day cleanse.

10/19/2014

It started with a failed New Orleans trip: the idea to explore East Austin as if we had a whole vacation-like, open-ended, relaxing day to do so.

We started at Jo's on South Congress with coffee outside around 10:45am. Gorgeous day. Who knew so many people would want their pictures taken there next to the wall of Guero's.

Yes, none of this is East Austin, but we had to hit Tesoros first for sugar skull molds for Día de los Muertos. No small molds. I refrain from purchasing hand-embroidered Peruvian throw pillows and some luscious colorful hand-tooled Paraguayan leather purses and wallets.

Then it was time for Eco-Wise, as I was thinking a validation stamp there would help with parking. I now have some new gloves and earth-friendly mosquito extermination things. I had to get the stamp at Vulcan Video. Where I purchased two bottled waters.

The loose plan was to then catch Rich Harney at Whip In, as I need to chat with him about a House Concert, but, in the end, the lure of a breakfast taco at one of Melissa's favorite places was just too strong. Whip In must wait.

Now we head to East Austin to find that food truck: Veracruz All Natural. Per usual when I go somewhere new (for me) with Melissa, I am wondering where this place has been all my life. The fish taco is the best I have ever had.

Fish tacos are so often so disappointing: the fish is not seasoned enough; the fish (usually tilapia) is frequently dried out. There also is usually very insufficient shredded cabbage and sauce to make it anything special. Not so here. It was a huge taco and dripping with juicy stuff and spicy sauce. Thus, there are no pictures.

Next, we make our way down the street, with the idea to check out Big Red Sun and a book store Melissa has been wanting to visit.

En route, there are many lovely things to enjoy. Like the Chucky piñata here as an option for your next birthday party.

Big Red Sun, we soon learn, is not open on Sundays. Or Saturdays. I lust over the large white planters anyway. We discuss who can make such a thing for me for under $50.

We continue, walking, until almost at I-35, and then there it is. A real live book store. Farewell Books.

I am agog. First at the styling of the place.

The display of all this vinyl (Nina Simone!) looks remarkably like an art installation I saw at the Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris in April 2012.

Then I am agog at the books themselves.

Who on earth carries a library copy, you know, with that crinkly plastic cover, of a novel by Alain Robbe-Grillet?

"Curated" is too precious and overused a word these days perhaps, but these books. They are intensely curated for the selection and display here. My heart beats faster, and I cannot resist. There she is: Simone de Beauvoir, subject of my senior honors thesis in French. And there too, perfect counterpoint, is André Malraux (in English). Simone is/was a profoundly influential feminist philosopher. Malraux -- subject of my junior honors thesis in French (much of which was written in the library at the Centre Georges Pompidou in the 80s) -- is a well-known misogynist. Exquisite. I buy them both.

Time to stop and rest with coffee.

We have so much time after all before the 5:30pm movie at Violet Crown (a documentary).

Someone dressed very well for our East Austin afternoon. And it was not I.

The lush plantings in front of a building that used to be Big Red Sun (I think) beckons, and we leave to ogle those plants on the walk back to the car.

We also find a lovely slice of a chuck of a pecan tree with a striking grain. It is just sitting on the street, in a pile of old electronics and wires and cords, for the taking.

In our final moment on Cesar Chavez before turning toward the car, I learn that TACOS GRINGAS means tacos with lettuce and tomato.

It's now a good time to head to Violet Crown. That is, it is time to make sure there is time to have an adult beverage before the movie.

Violet Crown is now "super-sizing" the libations into special movie-length libations. For wine the super-size is a "double pour." I may have opted for that.

And so ended the 5- or 6-hour day of East Austin that started on South Congress and allowed us only to make about a 5-block stretch of Cesar Chavez. It ended with popcorn and red wine for Art and Craft. And plans for another East Austin day.

09/28/2014

As we had no Outstanding in the Field extravaganza planned for this year, Mollie picked this event to tide us over--and it was a great one for a good local cause: saving Austin's Springdale Farm.

Urban farms are charming, important, and an important part of Austin's culinary landscape. But regulations abound, and the cost of compliance is killing the real work of maintaining this farm. So Austin's food community rallied in a big way on Sunday September 28 for a fundraiser to help save Springdale Farm.

For only $50 - a deal considering many of the food events Austin offers - we got exquisite cocktails (I vowed to stick to wine only, but then we tried what Cointreau was serving up) and samples of edibles from a veritable Who's Who of great Austin eateries. And we got vintage furniture seating areas, and music, and some Farm Games (Chicken "Poop" Bingo). Given the really big crowd - and this is just a small part of it pictured below - I hope we made a substantial dent into the financial matter of saving Springdale Farm.

I lost my posse early on in the event, practically right out of the gate, because I paused a long time here at the table with the offerings from the Driskill Hotel. I just cannot say no to anything involving roasted corn. So I said yes to two of those little plates.

And all that was mixed in with some finely blistered shishito peppers.

Smart planning that the organizers had all those food offerings right up front. This allowed for something solid on the tummy to absorb the potent offerings over at the cocktail stands. Many local favorites there representing the cocktail scene (e.g., Tipsy Texan):

There were wine offerings as well, from another local favorite: Austin Wine Merchant. Reminds me I need to stock up on Belle de Brillet over there for holiday parties.

Have never seen a more beautiful or more herbal gin and tonic than the one we sampled from here. A few sips were plenty. Those things were powerful.

Then it was time to figure out what that really long line was all about: it was Sonya Cote holding court over some pig and pig fixins. We asked what this offering of hers was called. She told us it was a "Pig Bar." Like a Bloody Mary bar, with the garnishes and all, but here the main event was a pig that had been grilled out over a large open grill right there.

A+ for the styling here: roasted lemons, thinly sliced apples tossed in a very light dressing, carrots in a like manner, without the creamy coating -- all served on a silver tray.

Here we saw up close some of the beautiful bounty of the farm: these eggplants (everyone was using produce from the farm in their offerings).

The Hightower turned these eggplants into this elegant offering, with crème fraiche and tomato gastrique. Yes, that beautiful pear-shaped item is in fact a very firm and tasty thin slice of this eggplant.

It was a fine afternoon, if a tad humid.

Many thanks to my friends for hanging out on a bench while I waited close to 30 minutes for that Cointreau cocktail. More on that later.

But most of all, many thanks to the many chefs who donated a lot of time and a lot of fantastic food to this most excellent cause.

08/23/2014

After another good round of detoxing this summer, I was slowly coming out into the world and sampling alcohol again. And carbs. One of the first memorable experiences after the successful 21-day detox of no caffeine, alcohol, or grains/bread of any kind (seriously weird how great that feels) involved stopping by a friend's house to sample something that sounded just too good to refuse: freshly-made salsa accompanied by a newly crafted cocktail she had created (infused vodka, cucumber, plus basil for healthy herbal freshness).

That sounded so good it got me out of bed after a nap, which had been required after some light holiday day drinking earlier in the day with the neighbors.

The spread that awaited me was pretty much how I could eat every day. Snacks. But gorgeous ones of textures and colors that I just don't have around my house everyday.

Not only was there salsa mexicana (upper right), but also a bowl of peanuts and pumpkin seeds fried with garlic and chiles de árbol (bottom left). I went to town on the peanuts and pumpkin seed combo pretty quickly.

And then there was that cocktail.

On my arrival she was in prep phase: chopping the lovely multi-colored tomatoes into the salsa, and then effortlessly but patiently chopping the onions into perfect tiny little squares. Someone was sent to the store for more chips. "Really...I did not mean to be such a bother...." as I eyed the bowl overflowing with big beautiful colors and could not wait to dig in.

I then exclaimed, as the bowl filled up with all that color: "Check that out. All the colors of the Mexican flag!" I am surprised she did not disown me as a friend right then (I have a masters in Latin American Studies after all). Right, she says: thus the name "Salsa Mexicana."

It was spicy. Really spicy. And I could not get enough of it.

All too soon, or maybe just in the nick of time, there was nothing left.

I did not feel too badly that my 21-day purification cleanse of no bread ended with a few chips. The chips were just the vehicle for scooping all that up.

I tried the same concoction chez moi a few days later. Disaster. None of that tangy fresh addictive spiciness. My problem, I would find out from the expert, was that I used some lame jalapenos. I should have used serranos. And I probably should have paid closer attention to getting the salt and lime juice proportions right. The recipe is easy. It is the execution of chopping just right, and adding everything in the right proportions, that can be tricky for the newbie. This is all you need after all:

tomatoes

serrano peppers

onions

cilantro

freshly-squeezed lime juice

salt

When I finally tried it again, victory was mine. And I had some pretty painful burning on the left hand from the serrano-chopping to prove it. (Be very careful with the serranos. Soaking the left hand in milk worked pretty well to cool the burn. And another reader recommended yogurt.)

Peanuts and pumpkin seeds fried in garlic with chiles ... for the next dinner party.

06/29/2014

Angers, France is Austin's sister city, and it's worth a visit for many reasons--including what is nearby: the already very special Fontevraud Abbey made even more special now for the recently opened gorgeous new hotel and restaurant right on the Abbey grounds.

Visit the Abbey and the grounds for sure, and soak up the history of Eleanor of Aquitaine ("one of the most powerful and fascinating personalities of feudal Europe" one random www source says), then spend the night and wake up in perfect quiet and peace in the French countryside. The style of the hotel decor may be best characterized as W Hotel meets high-end organic, sleek yet monastic. Seriously sublime.

Fontevraud lends itself well enough already to fabulous outdoor celebrations, including festivals that keep the grounds open until all hours, with films projected everyone, including the Abbey walls, and people sleeping wherever a sleeping bag may fit. Sleeping peacefully in the cool tones of beige and white of the hotel rooms though is well worth the splurge.

Visit the hotel web site here to see what I mean, and learn about the Abbey's fascinating history here. At the hotel web site, be sure and click on that video for views via a cute little drone to get up close and personal with the countryside and the hotel's interiors.

Back when I visited in April 2014, I was not sure they would make the May launch date. But make it they did. In grand style. Jealous of Angers friend who received a special invite to attend these festivities, but as he sent me the pictures, all is forgiven.

The photos are the work of David Darrault, and all are protected by copyright. A big thank you to the Abbey staff (merci, Anne !) for letting me share his superb photos here.

06/22/2014

(Not my guest bedroom where this Life Lesson occurred, but my very comfortable bed at a charming hotel in Saumur from that April 2014 trip.I have asked Santa to find and bring this comforter duvet thing to me for Christmas. Soft natural linen on one side, soft furry stuff on the other side.)

My son is leaving for college in a year, and it occurred to me that I had been remiss (along with many things along the way, such as not being well enough informed of how early I needed to start nagging about college applications, being afraid to look at his grades, living in denial about the state of his closet, etc.) in that he still lacked many life skills. But as he has been living with me his single working mom for years now he does have some skills in the Daily Household Living category: doing his own laundry, unloading the dishwasher, making rudimentary quesadillas (cut pieces from block of cheese crudely with knife; put cheese on tortilla; microwave; eat). And he has been putting his own plates away in the dishwasher since elementary school and occasionally setting the table--at least when I remember to yell upstairs and ask.

But it's time to ramp up the household daily life skills before he gets away from me. And so I started him on a series Life Skills, Cycle of Life Lessons this week in the summer, which I announced to him with very little reaction from him. I was getting pretty tired of his sitting around with a pulled/tight hamstring watching TV as I was figuring all day at home looking at international economic development issues and patent portfolios.

I decided he needed a behind-the-scenes look at some tasks, starting with the bed and its linens, to see all the mystery of how clean sheets managed to end up on a bed. House guests were arriving soon for the guest bedroom downstairs anyway.

Lesson One. Life Cycle of a Set of Sheets.

1. Strip the bed.

He did so. Overly well, in fact, as he also took off all the shams to the decorative pillows. This was an added bonus, as it allowed for a vocabulary lesson ("pillow sham"; "duvet").

2. Wash the sheets.

Then he had to take all that upstairs and place it all in the washing machine and start the washing machine. Then place them in the dryer. This was the easy part for him.

3. Make the bed with clean set of sheets.

Then it was time to actually make the bed. This was a good time for more vocabulary ("hospital corners" and "taut") and some family history about how my mom, his grandmother, became so expert at making a nice, taut, perfectly tucked-in bed from watching porters on the train trips her family took in the summers (back when that was an elegant way to travel).

He did not seem to care which side of the flat sheet was the one folded down nicely, so I set him straight on that. There was another lesson when putting the pillow case on the pillow: make sure the side of the pillow getting shoved in there first is the side with that annoying tag. I should rip those off anyway.

4. Finishing touches: the rest of the pillows.

A day later he had to get those shams from the dryer to put on the pillows. I finally took a look at how he did. The big square shams were on the big square pillows. Just a little more tucking in required to get that particular part of the pillow tucked in snugly into that flap of the sham. Not bad, considering that was a pretty advanced maneuver for bed-making.

The next lesson: "Life Cycle of Cooking 2-3 Meals a Day During the Summer while Mom Works at Home and Teenager Kills Time in Front of TV until Baseball Practice." I am anxious to see how he does with the delightful monotony of preparing a meal, eating, and cleaning up (which includes wiping down the counters too) three times a day. I told him this was all just to make sure he did not take these things for granted when they were done for him.

Today though, I asked if he cleaned up after lunch (I made him a real lunch that required messing up the kitchen again: a hamburger). He said yes, and added that he started the dishwasher. So, so proud. Now about those college applications....

05/20/2014

It is a bad idea, I knew this, to arrange for more than two meetings in one day in Paris. But time was limited after the Easter holiday, which included Monday. I had only two business days available before I left, Tuesday and Wednesday, so I pushed the envelope.

Tuesday's schedule included meetings at 9am, 11am -- then a 1pm lunch meeting and a 7pm apéritif. It was risky to so heavily schedule, but I carefully planned all transportation routes the night before. It would be do-able: leave the house at 8am to get up north to La Villette; leave around 10:15 to get to Batignolles for 11am, then use the same metro line from edgy Batignolles to super chic Avenue Matignon for a business lunch about international technology collaborations. No problem.

After much emailing the night before the 9am meeting, the 9am interlocuter could only do 11h30. Alas, that last-minute schedule change, after weeks of planning the day, just could not work. Desolée.

So at 10am, I skipped down the rue de Bièvre into the sunny and cool Paris morning, enjoying the ample time I had to soak up Paris on the walk across over the Seine to the Hôtel de Ville métro stop.

It is not a short walk, but it is an awesome and very familiar walk. I descend the steps into the métro stop, confident in this familiar routine on a familiar route, use my last métro ticket, and await the train.

Odd. Why are the times for the next trains on the info panel all X'd out. Then I see the sign. Line 1 closed, and for a critical part of it. Dang. I knew it was closed the day before; just did not register that it would still be closed on Tuesday.

Well, there goes that time cushion. I think not enough to time to get an Uber. I think taxi. But where?

I briskly make my way to the only potentially sure thing that came to mind: the taxi line at Boulevard St. Michel near the quai. I am no longer feeling chic. Or cheery. Walking, walking...walking briskly over across the bridge, back to the Ile de la Cité, where just minutes before I had been so light on my feet for a perfectly planned day of perfectly executed optimal transportation routes.

What luck. A taxi, just sitting there, not in a taxi line at all. I leap in, expresssing great relief, and tell him the street name.

I did not understand hardly anything from this chatty delightful driver. He was speaking a mix of French with something else with a non-discernible accent. The scenic drive took us down the rue de Rivoli, up around l'Opéra, through the streets named for Europe in the 8th. He shared his opinions with me on (1) God; (2) man's inabilty to accept the lack of control in life (the weather); and (3) the power of music for man's soul (he used to be a violin player). At a break in that line of thought, he pointed out a café he almost bought.

I arrived at the most charming (albeit with grungy edge) little corner of Paris on the Place Docteur-Félix-Lobligeois, in front of the appointed meeting place.

I am enchanted by this new littler quarter. [See article about Batignolles here.]

It was soon 12:30, time to get to the 1pm meeting. The lunch venue selected was The Berkeley, an elegant but not intimidating little restaurant on the sublimely quiet Avenue Matignon.

It was easy and so fast to get there. I sigh with satisfaction, pleased with my transportation successes, overcoming adversity. Yep, look at me, manhandling Paris. And here I am, nice and early, at this little slice of dreamy Paris elegance.

I speak with the hostess. I do not see his name there for a reservation, but she says no matter. I can seat you. Why, yes, thank you, that would be lovely. She offers to take my coat. Why yes, thank you. Lovely.

I am ensconced at a table for two and sink into the comfy chair. The front windows of Le Berkeley are all open to the street on this gorgeous day.

There are business persons all around, not surprising as the area is full of law firms and venture capital firms. The women have superb shoes. The men look so relaxed and urbaine.

If I had had enough life experience back when I was 14 in San Angelo, Texas, when I was dreaming about what Paris must be like, and what some imagined version of me might be like in Paris someday, this is exactly the type of place I would have imagined.

The first person to inquire of my needs asks about my water order. I go for the carafe of water, per usual. But no one is keen on getting me free water. Fine. But I am not paying for water. I will pay for wine though. I order a nice glass of white wine to wait for the other person. That order arrives quickly.

It is now 1:15. I call the business lunch date on his mobile, which was on the last confirming email.

As soon as he heard my voice, I could tell. He had forgotten. He was appalled. We schedule for the next day: same time, same place. He was so horrified. I say no worries. A demain.

But what to do now.

Leave? Ask for the check after just one glass of wine, though I am sitting at a table at which one may only dine, not just imbibe?

Does it appear so obvious that I was, you know, sort of stood up--even though sort of accidentally?

I decide to stay for lunch.

I send a lot of emails during my non-business meeting lunch for one, while enjoying this entrée of quinoa and tuna.

When I was done, I got the coat myself, used the lovely ladies room yet again, and headed out. [We did reprise that business lunch the next day. The conversation was much better.]

That 7pm apéritif meeting, at a certain club on the Champs Elysées? I was right on time. Only one problem: They would not let me in. At first. To be continued.

The promotional invite alone was classy. The "Bistrot" format was to allow the VIP lounge crowd to have a chance to talk about the French version of Psych Fest, slated for September 19-20, 2014 in Angers, and all the many facets of the burgeoning Austin-Angers music connections. [Why Angers? Remember, it's our sister city. But that's just part of the story of the dynamic music synergy between Austin and France, and they include a formidable music promoter, Christophe Davy.]

Amidst the hot sun (though the VIP lounge was tented and thus nice and cool) and a fashion parade from a demographic that I never, ever see in my usual life in Austin, Austin Angers Music kicked up the sophistication factor with a truly elegant spread of these tartines--on several trays and in many flavors and colors. Bread from Baguette et Chocolat. Gorgeous.

The tartines did not last long. I held back to let others enjoy. And they did.

Julie, from Nashville and who studied in Angers and speaks a lovely French, gets the credit for the stunning aray of tartines. Samantha Phelps, from Boring Enormous, boots on the ground for all things music regarding France, and Angers in particular these days, let me get a behind-the-scenes look where she and Julie were working this tartine magic in just a tent.

Germain Kpakou, from 9 rue Claveau in Angers, gives in to the request here for photos with Julie.

The tartine array allows for a cultural lesson: the tartine. What is it? It has a couple of manifestations in the French food culture.

First, that name, "tartine," refers to a breakfast item: a sliced in half portion of a crispy baguette, nottoasted, ready for you to adorn as you wish, with butter and ideally a selection of at least two confitures.

Second, "tartine" refers to a manifestation as Julie made here. A slice of high-quality bread with a topping. An open-face sandwich. Visual appeal and styling are critical for this type of tartine. They are seen around Paris, most often in my experience as a tartine done with Poilâne bread and then sometimes toasted/grilled for certain toppings to melt (like a nice slab of goat cheese). The New Yorker recently reported on a food trend of fancy "toasts" -- but the tartine has been around in France for way longer. Note the photos, for example, on Cuisine de Bar in Paris, where they serve nothing BUT tartines, on the Poilânepain au levain.

Austin Psych Fest had some fabulous design inspirations alongside the fashion parade, which my sister and I so enjoyed admiring from a seat in the VIP Lounge. I love a tent filled with plushy furniture, especially when I get to sit on it, and loved these knitted creations over the giant wood spools with denim shredded into fringe.

By the time these pictures were taken though, around 6pm on Day 2, it felt and looked more like a giant slumber party with the guests hanging on a day or so longer than anticipated.

And I cannot wait to try the whole scene out again next year, with some wardrobe adjustments for me to blend in better (crochet, lace, leather, suede fringe...).

05/04/2014

I awoke this morning around 6:15 am and, comme d'habitude, checked the email on the iPhone while in bed. Among the emails was a Facebook message from a friend in Paris, sending me what he pronounced as a good article on Paris in the Sunday (today) edition of the New York Times. I read the whole article in bed. I liked it so much that I was inspired to get out of bed for the sole purpose of getting my own hard copy of the NY Times, which is delivered to me at home on Sunday mornings (tempting to kick this expensive habit, but mornings and articles like this keep me hanging on). I slipped on the organic cotton skirt that I purchased in a heat-induced delirium at Austin Psych Fest yesterday and headed outside to get the paper that was there, as hoped and expected, on my sidewalk.

I already knew the story because I devoured it in bed at 6:30 am. I knew I already 150% agreed with the author about the unique pleasures of being in Paris alone. It is a luxurious, decadent experience.

"I went alone, to live in the present.

I sliced through an oyster with my cocktail fork, loosening it from its shell. A pulpy Utah Beach, it was brimming with lemon juice and its own slightly salty liquor. I lifted it with a thumb and forefinger, and tilted it to my lips."

I know I know. Say no more. It's utterly delicious having Paris all to yourself (when all is right with the world (the right shoes, enough money, good weather)).

A lot of places the author explores are the same places I have sought out or stumbled upon, including the Musée du Quai Branly, experienced not from the front entry, but from the more quiet entrance/exit from the rue de l'Université. I found it accidentally at night many years ago. There is, or was then, a garden in the back of the building, lighted up as if a swampy marshland on a cool night had met the Northern Lights.

You just cannot plan for the poetic moments of strolling about Paris on your own.

Now planning for options in Paris is ok. That's different. You can pick what feels right for the day rather than just trudging on with a planned itinerary. (E.g., Am I in a hipster Bobo mood, a Montmartre village-esque mood, or a Left Bank (i.e., rue de Sèvres/rue de Rennes/rue du Cherche-Midi) type of mood today? These are very different experiences of Paris.)

As the author noted, she felt like heading north, up to Sacré Coeur. But she appropriately avoided the crowded tour buses making the rounds and opted instead for streets leading up the hill, now filled with increasingly chic storefronts among the more traditional ones. Among the chic ones: Sébastian Gaudard. [We checked it out on the 2012 girlfriends trip to Paris. Put your cameras away. They will usher you away most likely. And you would not want to be banned: M. Gaudard (who is, sigh, so very easy on the eyes; see these images) does have the best baba au rhum ever.]

On a brisk run one morning in the summer of 2013, I found my old neighborhood from those students days in 1985-86, near the Parc Monceau (pictured here thanks to a lucky Hipstamatic moment).

A friend noted a while back that I needed a lot of "Liz time," and I'm finally getting around to admitting, years later, that he was right. It is especially true with Paris, but it also is a longstanding, entrenched compulsion. Since the age of 17.

After a first trip to Paris in my junior year of high school, I considered myself well-equipped to do Paris on my own. So by the time the next trip rolled around the next year -- a generous high school graduation trip from my parents -- I just left the group. We were moving as a herd (more than 2 or 3), and I just could not take it. I left to go do my own thing. No memory of what I did. I just remember the liberating moment of realizing I had métro tickets: I could go anywhere I wanted!

And for the girlfriend trip in April 2012, each of us very independent and set in our ways on travel, the girlfriends asked how I would handle traveling with them in Paris. It is a sign of good friends that they knew me well enough to ask. I did have ample Paris time to myself that trip, but I also had glorious days and meals with the girlfriends.

Traveling with friends means someone can watch your stuff when you go to Les Toilettes. And someone can call your phone when you think you've misplaced it (which is like every 5 minutes for me these days, ever since the iPhone was stolen last summer in Paris). And someone can be there to affirm and agree with you that yes, Verjus, at night, can create the most perfect dining experience of just right food, charming and engaging staff, wine pairings, a simple and exquisite cheese array, followed by an after-dinner, after-hours investigation into scotch down at the wine bar. But everyone should leave enough time to just explore and experience. And you should read that NY Times article in today's paper if you don't quite get that yet.

04/27/2014

Though 2 business days and 1.5 holiday days are not enough to get immersed in the things I typically do in Paris (e.g., check out new urban infrastructure projects), this trip was long enough to remind of some of the best and worst data points about Paris noticed over recent trips.

(Paris is in bloom, so pretty, but that also means pollen, which creates so not a pretty feeling)

the "best" list

Number 1: Hand dryers.

This data point continues to impress me. Paris bathroom hygiene technology has come a long way in the past 2 decades. Back in the day, there were sad feeble motorized hand-drying contraptions whose output was a faint breeze that took minutes and minutes of standing there whilst water dripped down your arms. High-power dryers are cropping up in increasing frequency now. I have dripped water into the sleeves of too many black turtlenecks too many times. I still love this trend.

Number 2: Taxis

They seemed to be more abundantly around and about this trip. I found them when I needed them out and about. It helped that Maureen alerted me to a prime location where taxis are, typically, outside of late night and big public festivities (Nuit Blanche). I do not dare discuss with them the Uber controversies, though I always seek out updates from Uber drivers. I had some really good taxi drivers this trip: from the moment we left Gare Montparnasse to arrive at rue de Bievre, to the G7 taxi's perfect timing picking me up at the rue des Deux Ponts, Ile St. Louis, for the drive to Roissy-CDG for the return flight. You only need half-hour notice though I learned from him. Because I was under the impression on Easter Sunday for a few hours that I had lost my iPhone...another story...I did learn this nice bit: there is a city-wide lost and found number for lost items in taxis.

Fortunately I found the phone in my gigantor purse during mass at Notre Dame so did not have to live with the very real possibilty that I would never get an answer to that plea for help via email to the web site. But here it is nonetheless.

I wrote this kind word about taxis, however, before I saw this piece about France now mulling over the idea of banning chauffeur apps, which would include banning Uber entirely. France. You just kill me sometimes.

Number 3: New places discovered, old places renovated

New Places

Funny how you can walk down the same street for years and never notice a little sign that points, subtly, to what I now know is the Mémorial des Martyrs de la Déportation. I had a few minutes to spare to get back to the rue des Deux Ponts. I took advantage of being one person (they limit how many people go in) and got up to the front of a not-yet-formed crowd of people.

I had no idea I was getting in line for such a powerfully moving space. The symbolism and poetry the architectural design embodies -- for this memorial to the 200,000 people deported to Nazi concentration camps in WWII -- make this worth a view. Go quietly and humbly. Read the writing, carvings really, on and into the walls. The writing is red-hued to refer to the blood shed in this horrible moment of French and world history.

Hard to see, but there is that red-hued carving into an exterior wall: 1945.

Renovated Places

From the sacred and serious to the frilly: The Pick-Clops on the rue Vieille du Temple has gotten a face lift! It is all freshened up while keeping the cheery yet not-too-perky charm of the old. Love it even more now. (But, to be clear, not for the food.) Glowing reviews include pictures that confirm the change from dark red awning to this bright white and yellow canopy, extending over a bustling terrace on one of my still-favorite streets in Paris.

If I were back in the Marais for any extended period of time, I would make this my neighborhood place...

One's transportation getting to Paris counts as part of the Paris experience. I'm about done with the folks at United. They took away premier access for me. They took away the Houston-Paris flight (2.5 years ago), meaning I now have from Austin only Dulles, Newark, or Chicago as options for the connecting flight over.

Choosing Newark this time for a change...never again. Chopping that trip into two legs of 4-8 hours is no bueno no more. Must figure out a better way. And probably on another airline.

Number 2: Those *%^*#%$#@ locks

I'm in a pretty good place in life despite challenges in the marital status space. But the locks. Seriously. Not all of these persons are showing their love. It's now surely a game of one-upmanship. Check out the bike lock jutting out, now permitting still more locks to attach themselves to this impromptu, arbitrary expansion of the bridge. And the locks are encroaching on other bridges now too.

It was cute for a time. But cut them off now before the bridge falls into the Seine. Time for a new crop of fresh locks and new young loves. For a more studied analysis of the situation, read the recent HiP Paris Blog entry on this topic.

It used to be great. A little secret for great Mexican food that I shared with some friends. I too anxiously looked forward to catching it at the right time (i.e., when the 8 seats were not taken), and having those tacos with hongos and spectacular cocktails. It is overrun now. And not in a fun way at all. I may give it one last try though. Maybe on a Sunday late morning, when the international hipster crowd is still asleep.

I hear there is a Mexican food place on the rue St. Honoré to check out.

04/15/2014

On day 2 of the weekend for Les Journées Nationales du Livre et Vin, I was on my own to make my way around the VIP literary events featuring the weekend's guest of honor, Mazarine Pingeot. This Saturday afternoon event was no struggle at all though, because being the quiet academic type, I love a library, old dusty books and a lecture about 19th-century poetry. The lecture was over at the Musée de la Cavalerie, entitled: "Les ivresses de Verlaine."

The loveliness of the day was almost ruined by my not sleeping at all the night before. The pharmacie in Fontevraud was, alas, closed when we arrived there for the previous night's event, so I could not secure a certain sleeping aid about which French friends raved (I had forgotten my Zquil).

After the "conférence" on Verlaine I made my way back down the rue St. Nicolas, recognizing I had 2 hours before the next event at 19h00. I would take a nap.

At 18h45, after a 1-hour nap, I stumbled down the stone spiral staircase at the Hotel St. Pierre to make my way to a venue for which I had only a vague idea of its location. I asked adorable Regis at the desk, who enjoyed teasing me how long I was sleeping in these mornings, if he knew the location (he seemed to know everything about everybody). He did, of course. But a driver was standing right there for other guests. He offered to take me to the event with the others. Fantastic!

The others turned out to be the lecturer from earlier that day, and a very nice, extraordinarily interesting couple who worked for France Television.

We were the first to arrive. There was a large, long table set up outside on the sidewalk, with all the telltale signs of a great apéritif hour (or two or three, as it turned out). Pigs were the decoration for the evening, and for good reason. There may be no other place in the world where one should embark upon the gastronomic discovery of pig's feet (pieds de cochon) than this place: Girardeau. Monsieur Girardeau is Europe's champion in this area.

As much as I love France and all things French, sometime my GI system does not like France so much. So faced with this table laden with a huge paté -- for Easter I am told, thus the eggs (traditionally inside, but they prepare theirs with the eggs outside) -- and many glasses waiting to be filled, I realize I will need to take it easy.

I remarked to Christophe from France Televsion my amazement at how polite the French are. Look, everyone waiting calmly around a table laden with amazing food. Ah non, he says. This is not always the case about the timing of approaching "le buffet." Not at all. Tonight though, we await our VIP Mazarine Pingeot. She arrives. They start pouring (with Bouvet Ladubay of course). Little by little, the mood changes. Things relax. People relax. I relax. My new friend Alain, one of the photographers, takes a few pictures and offers to send them to me. A few are in this post. Wish I had some lipstick on....

Trays of food start appearing.

I learn for the first time that these are pig's feet, pieds de cochon, and these people are the grand masters. I say yes to the paté but no to the pig's feet. Sure, that sounds great to be having pig's feet by Europe's grand champion in this area, but I am thinking that on 2 hours of sleep, wine, and exhaustion, this is not a good combination for me.

Two glasses of Bouvet Ladubay later, I am singing a different tune. I am trying the little toasts with the famous preparation of pig's feet by this lovely gentleman.

It may have been because the charming Jean-Maurice was handing out the tray now that I could not resist trying them.

These were hot out of the oven: thinly sliced little toasts, chewy still, with this savory topping. A revelation. DELICIOUS. I love pig's feet. At least this way.

Our happy crowd is now overflowing into the tiny rue St. Nicolas. I end up in the conversation that includes guest of honor Mazarine. The topic is absinthe. I regret I remember so little from my article about Tenneyson Absinthe, made by an Austinite via a distillery in France, but I can speak on the topic anyway. I contribute to this conversation the fact that in Austin, there are cocktails that comprise both absinthe AND mezcal (which also was a topic of conversation). Mazarine says that sounds pretty great.

About this time there is a murmur in the crowd. Something about "the quarante-cing" (le '45). Apparently the owner has brought out some very dusty bottles. Crowds move in to sample the '45. No way I'm missing this.

Emboldened by the extraordinary taste of the pig's feet and wanting to try another toast with pig's feet with a 1945 Saumur blanc, I hold my glass up to where the pouring is happening. Score.

I watch the French who are far more discerning than I critique the color and the taste. We run out of le '45 quickly, and then there is the "quarante-sept" - or '47. Sure, I will have some of that too, thank you. I would learn that the '47 truly was an exceptional year. I also am told by certain sources that last year M. GIRARDEAU had some tastings of a 1900!

Now it is getting close to 9 pm. Lunch was just a salad. And though I have thoroughly enjoyed the pig's feet, the '45, the '47, and the paté de Paques, I am starting to feel the earth pull away. I will not make it to dinner. I make the rash decision to call it a night so I can get some sleep with my new sleep aid procured that day.

It was a good call, I guess. I could end the day saying that I had a short conversation, indirectly, with the daugher of a French president. And I tried some wines I never ever would otherwise have had the opportunity to enjoy.

I would learn the next day that I missed quite a night: dancing at a private club after the dinner, complete with a gendarme theme. Maybe next year. And I'll remember to wear lipstick when there are photographers about. Cheers!

04/13/2014

Sunday April 13 would be the official big day for the Livre et Vin festival here in Saumur--thanks to Bouvet Ladubay keeping this event alive and even expanding it to national stature--but Friday night opened with a very special, private reception on the grounds of the Abbaye Fontevraud, with--yes Bouvet Ladubay's beautiful sparkling wines being served--but also a French president's daughter, Mazarine Pingeot, as the guest of honor.

Mazarine Pingeot is a professor, an author, a mom. After seeing her here and there at various events, and being right next to her one night later as I mentioned that in Austin there are cocktails with mezcal AND absinthe (subtle gasp from the group), I get that she is a remarkably regular person. And in reading her book that I would buy later that night, that becomes even more clear. But the panel discussion that evening over dinner, was all quite clever and very literary: critics and authors addressed Mazarine's work, her father's writing, and her status now in French culture ever since her existence was made known to the French general public (read the story here). It was heady stuff.

Another star of the night, in addition to Mazarine Pingeot, was the Abbey itself. Not very often is it open at night. Some public art and theatrical spectacles taking advantage of the light and shadows of this special place occur there from time to time, but tonight we had the place to ourselves (aside from a few artists in residence there).

The Abbaye Fontevraud is in Fontevraud, a village of 1500 inhabitants (per the mayor herself). The Abbaye appears to be re-inventing itself, over and over again, keeping itself relevant in a region--a nation--of numerous architectural and geographical wonders. The web site itself was enough to draw me in. The old, the magestic, and the highly spiritual are all combined with shocking hot pink accents. It works. And if you do not know the story about Eleanor of Aquitaine, you should. She was, um, high-spirited one could say. She is recognized as the most powerful woman in feudal Europe. She spent her last days at the Abbaye Fontevraud.

The picturesque village of Fontevraud, from the color of the special limestone (tufa), which is everywhere is this region, to the color of the shutters (pale shades of sage) also must conform to historical niceties. The effect is charming, as it is for most architecturally controlled historic districts--all the way down to the beautifully paved streets, re-done to look old.

But Friday was not so much for the history of Fontevraud and its Abbey, but the place as backdrop for a dinner event, which began with an aperitif on a vast expanse of lawn.

There was of course Bouvet Ladubay for our elegant beverage, Bouvet Ladubay being a favorite sponsor of many Austin-Angers events, i.e., SxSW just last month.

As lovely as all that was, out there on the lawn on a cool evening, especially hearing Madame le Maire of Fontevraud explain to a friend and me how historical preservation funding works in France, it was eventually time to go inside for the "Cafe Litteraire."

I get now that a "cafe litteraire" is the name for a certain type of ritual: a very pleasant interlude for erudite literary conversation accompanied by food and beverage, or just a beverage or just food. We had a lovely little meal for this special evening at Fontevraud, at the Alienor Cafe, while listening to Mazarine.

I did not have to regret for long that I had not thought to buy a book for Mazarine to sign: there were books there for purchase, which she graciously signed.

After hearing her discuss over dinner the poetry of everyday things, and the agony and ecstasy in the monotony of everyday life, I had to get her book, "les invasions quotidiennes."

Mazarine Pingeot signing books.

For a special treat as part of the overall VIP treatment, there was a late-night tour of the Abbey--or Eleanor at least.

Close to midnight things really started winding down. Time to head home to Saumur. When I returned to my lovely hotel, the Hotel Saint-Pierre, there was a gift waiting for me in my room.

Between that and my new book signed by a French president's daughter, this was, I thought then, quite a good end to a pretty great day in France.

03/01/2014

The best thing about a walk down (a hazy) memory lane for my favorite boozy walks in Paris is that they span some 30 years and, thankfully, show an upward trend in classiness. You can re-create these boozy walks if you like, and then enjoy the Euro lifestyle fact of no problems for driving: just best of luck finding a taxi. Don't get me started on the Taxi versus Uber thing.

1. "The First Time."

That first time was the early 1980s. The age was 16. The beverage was cheap red wine. In a cheap pizza restaurant off the busy, sort of tacky, drag that is le Boulevard St. Michel. I remember red tables and cheap paper placemats. I remember a pleasant numbness and a sense of my life being so awesome as my other rule-breaker friends (we had snuck out of our hotel) stumbled back. Tearing up a little just thinking about that first time.

You could re-create this boozy walk by an upgrade: maybe the goat cheese and cream pizza at Pizza Sant-Antonio (drizzle spicy olive oil on it too) on the picturesque Place du Bourg Tibourg in the Marais, accompanied by a much higher grade of house red in a nice half carafe.

2. "I Love Me a Good Wine Bar/JYF Year of Excess."

The year was 1985, the first part of my Sweet Briar Junior Year in France program. The place was Au Sauvignon. This lunch was a pivotal gastronomic moment. An upgrade in the red wine for sure -- this was a wine bar after all, but little did I know of such things as "wine bars" back then. I was just 20 years old and from San Angelo, Texas (San Angelo way cooler now). I happened to order a glass of "le St. Emilion," and this "tartine" thing on this bread called "Poilâne." The choice for a tartine was the chèvre.

Revelation: This tart delicious cheese and this fine wine thing all combined. One glass led to another. We must have purchased a bottle or two because Boozy Walk No. 2 involves a clear memory of clanging bottles in a bag as we held onto each other walking back for afternoon classes. Au Sauvignon is still there. Poilâne is still there. But for those Poilâne tartines the crowds tend to gravitate these days toward Cuisine de Bar. Amazing what those people can do with a toaster.

My Serge Gainsbourg thing derives mostly from the myth of the man and his embodiment of classic, iconic images of Paris. Smoky sultry bars, jazz, decadence.

When I first started meeting up with French friends Anne and Romain, who used to live across the street from me in Austin, we met up with their just as hip friends at Pamela Popo.

As reported in previous posts...when your friends know the owners of a cool place, nice things happen. You are introduced to wonderful things, such as the Panpan Cucul. We decided "spanky spanky" was the best translation in English for this mint-infused pale pink cocktail. I would revisit that boozy walk in April 2012 with The Girlfriends Trip To Paris.

(The Serge connection: "Pamela Popo" is the name of a Serge Gainsbourg song. Listener discretion advised.)

Enjoy your cocktail(s) in the quirky Mid-Century-esque decor in the comfy lounge downstairs with friends, or sit outside and sip alone, immersed in your social media.

4. "The $50 (each) Cocktail Buzz."

On one last night in Paris my new friend Maureen decided we should get out and have a nice cocktail. We started at the Ritz, my choice, because I thought it would be cool. Only the Hemingway Bar there was cool. Everything else, non. For such reasons it is closed for massive renovations. I did not realize the signature cocktail there was $50.

Then there was the piano bar at the George V. Then there was the Plaza Athénée bar (this hotel also closed now for renovations). As previous posts mention, Paris is so Paris because of this contrast: the high and the low(er) end: old, as in classic, and new and hipster and genuine. A boozy walk is just as delightful after an afternoon down in the 11th at natural wine bar La Buvette ... or sitting for hours at the bar at the Plaza Athénée. You can still check out La Buvette, or any other of the natural wine bars, and as these other luxury hotels are getting facelifts, maybe check out the W. Or Le Meurice.

5. "La Dernière Goutte/Down to the Last Drop."

Every time I am in Paris I try to fit in a food tour with Meg Zimbeck and Paris by Mouth. So should you.

Meg has perfect pitch in picking cheese/wine pairings with her friends at La Derniere Goutte. For that summer month in 2013, I was able to fit in only one Meg event: a "dégustation" of cheese and wine pairings in the back room at La Derniere Goutte. Our group from all over the world was so charming (one couple I met knew my rock star primary case physician at Austin Regional Clinic!). We got louder and louder. We "spit" or poured less and less into the giant blue pitcher on the table for that purpose.

Though there was plenty to eat ...

---I was very, uh, suffering the consequences the next day of a bit too much of the good thing (i.e., array of exquisitely delicious new red wines and cheese pairings). I was so caught up in the moment -- Paris, new friends, Paris, red wine, Paris -- that I bought a case of Côte-Rôtie and had it shipped home. Still waiting for the perfect client event to open the box.

I walked all the way home to the edgy 11th, up north of Bastille, because Paris was so heartbreakingly beautiful that afternoon -- if not a little hazy.

02/11/2014

My trainer had been asking me a couple of weeks ago, repeatedly, what I am doing for Valentine's Day--and telling me she needs to find me a date--though she knows full well that date is a four-letter word for me, way down low on the priority list, because like my situation with Excel spreadsheets, I (i) am hopelessly terrible at it, and (ii) have neither the patience nor mental energy or motivation to work on improving said lameness. And I would not have even thought much about this at all, but for her mentioning this at every one of our recent 6am workouts. Good thing that with all this "snow and ice" in Austin we have had to cancel some workouts, leaving some breathing room from the "let's find Liz a date" conversation as my abs are burning from plank walks with push-ups. And in these critical lead-up days to Valentine's Day, she has been sick, further diminishing the opportunities for having to listen to this.

Luxembourg Gardens, Paris, January 2013

Years and years and years ago, in the early post-divorce stage, my [awesome] therapist back then mused out loud if my renewed France focus, bubbbling up around that time with intense vigor, was an escape from dealing with all that other, harder stuff. I'm not saying it is, she said, just wondering. Right.

As much as I loved chatting with said therapist, it was finally time to leave that nest. Eventually some equilibrium was attained, and eventually I started to notice le 14 février kept coming around, again and again. And because of that annoying repetition, two years ago I chose to leave for a business trip to France on that day. That meant I enjoyed a Valentine's Day dinner meal contained in small plastic dishes, covered with foil, comprising mashed potatoes perfectly formed to the foil container and mushed into and around an unnaturally formed piece of chicken covered in a gelatinous brown sauce. The red wine was from a little plastic bottle.

I did this on purpose, thinking I'd wade on into pathos confidently. Whatever. It makes for a nice little vignette, barely, but the more important thing is I ended up in Paris. Where there is no barrage of Jared's commercials (or that Turbo Tax commercial this year that makes me weepy with that sweet little couple getting married, and all the adorable couple moments of carefree togetherness the commercial goes through to get to the point).

Walking over to, or maybe from, the Ile Saint-Louis, in the snow, January 2013

Only now, years later, I am willing to admit that said therapist may have been on to something. For many many years later, I would find myself questioning the personal life such that I thought my lodging in Paris for a business trip regarding the agricultural sector should envelop me cozily, like a big hug, and that would mitigate wasted energy in that arena. The fluffy down comforter in the studio was indeed super soft and comfy, but that escapist lodging choice turned into the place where I would stay for 30 hours straight with some vicious norovirus, but for a few minutes for the walk down to the high-end Monoprix on the rue du Bac to buy crackers, toast, more crackers, something close to ginger ale, and a bottle of bleach to sanitize for everyone else's protection the cool whites and greys of that very chic, little studio near the Serge Gainsbourg wall.

Some people reflect on their lives and how they are doing on all fronts--professionally, physically, spiritually, emotionally--on their birthdays or the start of a new calendar year. For me, that day of reflection tends to be Valentine's Day, perhaps because it has been such a longtime nemesis. This year, like last year, and much like last year's 2013 musings, I am not going anywhere for that day, which is not just fine but also very necessary given the overload of fun this past weekend squeezed into a working weekend.

On Valentine's Day Night 2014 I will probably be cozied up another way: pondering the new mantras for the year, and dealing with that other thing I'm really bad at--if not Excel spreadsheets per se, learning how to use Quicken, finally, and tackling a year's worth of bookkeeping for 2013.

Fortunately there is a little bit of France in the fridge to help with all that: a bottle of Taittinger.

Food culture, as I am calling it to describe the day, comprises everything from new social media affecting the reporting of food ("Writing About Food in the Age of New Media), women of color in the "foodie" world, the co-opting of local, community foodstuffs for global mass marketing (Pioneer Woman), "Peace through Pie" (thanks to author Toni Tipton-Martin, @thejemimacode), to entrepreneurship in the food space ("Making a Living at Food" featuring food editors/journalists (Virginia Wood, Austin Chronicle; Julia Moskin, NY Times) and chef owners telling their stories (Sonya Coté, Sharon Mays)). And the day closed with what may have been the best panel of the day: "Gender in Cookbooks," featuring spunky Laura Shapiro, culinary historian and author of, among other things, Perfection Salad: Women and Cooking at the Turn of the Century. I should have brought the book along and had her sign it, as Kate Payne (The Hip Girl's Guide to Homemaking) was smart enough to do.

You could not get closer to what makes my psyche tick than this combination: Literary theory (light version), social anthropology/social constructs, history, business creation -- superimposed onto the food culture of today, a culture that both annoys me (elitist, pretentious (I may be guilty of same just by thinking that), overdone) and delights me (notions of community, origins of nostalgia, the profoud satisfaction and magic of simple fresh food and wine with good friends).

The day had a good reference point: the recent Time magazine cover "The Gods of Food" and accompanying article, in which not a single female appeared in their "tree" of influential chefs. Eater posted this article by Dirt Candy's Amanda Cohen, who interviewed the editor about what ON EARTH they were thinking. An excerpt from the EATER article, which is attached at the previous link:

Some people have a problem that the centerpiece of the TIME article, a family tree of chef influences, doesn't include any women. Duh. How stupid is everyone? As Mr. Chua-Eoan says of the magical chart, which was put together by Aaron Arizpe:

"It's all men because men still take care of themselves. The women really need someone — if not men, themselves actually — to sort of take care of each other."

So see, women don't take care of themselves or shave their legs enough or something, and they don't have men doing it for them, so they're not on the chart. As Chua-Eoan continues: "It's unfortunate, the women who are there are very good, but very few of them actually benefited from the boys club, as you can see from the chart."

Which is a chart of the boys club.

A counterbalance is found in the recently article by the New York Times, by the same Julia Moskin who participated in The Women and Food Symposium (by video).

The upside: we are talking with our outside voices about the issue of exclusion and getting enraged about it. At least we (women) have some say in the matter, and access to media outlets--and powerfully influential ones--to get a different view out there: witness Julia Moskin at the New York Times and Amanda Cohen via Eater.

More from Amanda because she just so owns her anger about the whole system. She does not use the term "unrecognized privilege" to speak of the boy's club (you can't recognize it when you're in it), but its spirit is there:

And let's give him a pass on comments like how his article:

"…reflects one very harsh reality of the current chefs' world, which unfortunately has been true for years: it's still a boys club."

Actually, no. I've never found restaurants or the world of chefs to be a boys club. I've worked with and for lots of women, lots of female chefs run restaurants across the country, and heck, there's even a lady chef running the White House kitchen. Also female chefs like Dione Lucas, Madeleine Kamman, Josefina Velazquez de Leon, and Julia Child were some of the earliest and most famous chefs to popularize cooking by teaching and appearing on television and radio. On top of that, I've never found male chefs anything but awesome and supportive, and if they have a boys club they must be keeping it very secret. But Mr. Chua-Eoan says it's a boys club, and so it's a boys club.

She inspired some debate, to put it mildly. Some commenters to that article said the chart in the Time article was right on, and no chef of the female persuasion did belong there as an influential force. Well, ok (but not even Alice Waters?).

As the food culture evolves into an ever more massive revenue-generating industry, it is no surprise that the same theme of gender disparity is resounding in the food world, like it is in the tech world, and like it has been for decades in other professions (accounting, law, academia). (See, e.g., this article in Forbes for that problem in tech.) But thank you, The Food Lab, for getting more of us thinking about the issue again -- and caring about it. Remind me to get my Eden East reservation in to support Sonya's local endeavors.

12/31/2013

With the next Paris reconnaissance trip a long few months away - in April 2014 - and with budget constraints limiting shipments of Poilâne bread straight to me, I anxiously sought out the sur place resulting from the in-house bread program overseen by Mark at Odd Duck. Ever since the Outstanding in the Field event with Bryce Gilmore at the helm and Mark at the bread oven, I've been anxiously awaiting Odd Duck's opening for a ready source of crusty, exquisitely textured homemade bread.

Dinner there last night on December 30 - at the embarrassingly early time of 17h30 - met this longfelt need. As I had dreamed it, bread was on the menu. For $5, and I did not mind that at all--though a Poilâne miche -- 4 times the size of these sweet little loaves of carbohydrates -- is 9.05 euros last I checked (just now), which is about $12.30, making Mark's bread fairly pricey compared to the humongous size of a Poilâne miche. No matter. Eating just the crust of this bread, with this butter, is a meal in itself. With red wine of course.

Do I mind paying $5 for this bread, served alongside a huge gloppy delicious mass of homemade butter? Non. Though at Arro I was highly offended by the idea of having to pay for bread, I am getting used to the idea now.

For Mark's bread, this bread made in those cozy warm bread ovens -- where we were seated last night, with views out through the glass out into the West, looking back over my left shoulder, as the sun was setting and the sky all orange and hot pink -- I will gladly pay $5.

On a scale of 1 to 10...the scorecard.

Vibe/Decor : 9.3

I arrived at 5 pm - so excited about feeling better, finally - and being out and about. I looked forward to having a glass of wine at the bar. This was not to be. No open seating there. This is a dommage because the combination of glass, rich wood tables, the burlap on those oversized light fixtures -- it all cries out for hanging out and chilling.

I love the reservations scheme. It's my French alter ego thing. Reservations are de rigueur, mostly, in France, as I hope I am getting across -- see the articles on this -- to anyone thinking about going to France. Though just as this is changing in the US (Austin, i.e., Odd Duck), France (Paris) is changing on this front as well. I'd give it a 10, but for wanting to hang at the bar and that not being available. Even at 5pm.

Food - 9.6

Hits included:

Field pea fritters, almond, cumin

Kohlrabi soup, bacon, romaine, cheddar

Goat rolled in pasta, mole sauce, butternut squash, mesquite

The Field Pea Fritters.

The Soup.

The Goat.

Folks are raving about the chicken fried egg; I couldn't go for it. That goat though. A pleasure. Austin's French friends, in our sister city of Angers, already won over by Barley Swine in their past visits, will no doubt love this place as well.

The miss:

Chocolate pudding, verjus, malted barley

I wanted that carrot panna cotta so badly, but with France nostalgia setting in, I went for the chocolate pudding. It did include in its ingredient list "verjus" after all, one of my super fav restaurants in Paris (Verjus), a restaurant whose food is quite reminiscent of what Bryce Gilmore is doing. See such national reviews of Verjus as this one in Saveur last year. This choice was nothing special for me. Just chocolate. A shell, some foam. I didn't get it. But with expectations so high for all things coming out of the kitchen here, a single miss is not a horrible thing.

South Lamar used to seem way so very far away. Mild crankiness set in anytime I had to venture south of Town Lake. But with South Lamar bubbling over with gastronomic goodies these days, and Austin growing by leaps and bounds, south of Town Lake no longer seems like a trek.

And reserving a bar seat at Odd Duck for a casual solo session of crusty bread and Côtes du Rhône may well become a new much-loved routine for me in 2014.

12/29/2013

For many reasons, I signed myself up a couple of weeks ago for a volunteer shift at Austin's Capital Area Food Bank (CAFB) way down south on South Congress. I thought I signed up my teen as well (for lessons in community, volunteerism, just getting him off the *%^%#$ couch, etc.), but that did not work out. I had no idea what to expect when my 1-4 pm shift on Saturday December 28 came around, but what I got in return were insights far beyond the mere act of volunteering.

If you are looking for some direct-impact volunteer opportunities, consider CAFB. In addition to many opportunities and times to help out, it has family night on the first Tuesday of every month and a Thursday 6-8:30 pm shift for adults who want to help but need a work/family-friendly shift. Here's where you can sign up.

(No cell phones allowed during the volunteer shift. Safety first. No distractions allowed. This was after we were done. View onto just a very small part of the operation and those precious, scarce banana boxes.)

Observations on organization, the food donation system, and how far away we are from a healthy, sustainable food system. Of course CAFB is very much involved in the debate.

1. CAFB: well run and organized.

I did not appreciate beforehand that because we were dealing with food, many health and safety regulations had to be followed. CAFB staff, while hilarious and highly entertaining, took this very seriously. (And by the way, CAFB, the fact our team leaders that day were so utterly talented in the comedic realm, I immediately felt welcome and not as freaked out at why on earth was I here with not a single person I knew to do something I had no idea about.)

One of the fun and inspiring Capital Area Food Bank staff members giving pep talk to her "Team Awesome" of youth and family volunteers: parents there with their young teens for the shift. They did some separate work of separating and packing up canned goods.

2. The CAFB site on South Congress.

This site executes "product recovery." They are a central sorting spot for 300 partner agencies in 21 counties. Food must be sorted, inspected, packed up according to very strict standards and protocols so when agencies order what they need, they get exactly what they ordered according to the needs of that particular agency's community.

As simple as that process sounds, it takes a small village, or Saturday afternoon team of volunteers, to get it done. Sorting food is labor-intensive because there is far more to it than just the sorting. And herein lies the lesson of factory line work, automation, people, teamwork, safety.

3. Organization.

CAFB staff organized the volunteers into various parts of the process.

First, a group of us would be the "expediters": they brought huge heavy cardboard boxes of donated frozen foods off of the many pallets and set them down, as needed, in front of the inspectors.

Second, inspector volunteers unpacked the boxes, taking out the foods to inspect them per the many instructions (had to be rock hard frozen for one thing...learned a lot about packaging), with a LOT of guidance at first (see Food Recall point below), then placing the inspected frozen food item on the conveyor belt for sorting (a black sharpie was used to mark out the bar code to preclude resale). Some foods not meeting certain specific standards had to be thrown away. Others could go to the Austin zoo for the lions and tigers and bears.

Because of one rule--ingredients HAVE to be listed on the food item--bin after bin after bin was filled with food that had to be thrown away.

This was not a good day for vegetarians to be on the inspection line. You are handling meats after all, albeit frozen, of many shapes and forms.

[Most disgusting surprise in one of those boxes? A cardboard box just full of nothing but crushed ice and meat parts. Yep, no packaging. No plastic at all: just meat stuffs in the ice. I had to go over and see that for myself. Hey, you, who made that donation: "Not helpful." Off it went to the trash.]

Third, other volunteers packed up the sorted foods into banana boxes, the "lifeblood" of the operation because these boxes are so ideal and thus crucial to the packing, storing, and shipping-out process.

Fourth, as the inspectors went through their boxes, the boxes had to be broken down. I was on that team because I said I was someone who could be trusted with box cutters. This turned out to be not entirely true. It took a few tries to get into the habit of making sure the blade was fully retracted back into the handle before placing it in my back pocket.

[Best trick EVER: in breaking down boxes, take those box cutters and cut out a giant X on the bottom. It will fold up flat in a jiffy.]

Fifth, we had to sort the boxes that we were flattening because they went to different places.

Sixth, as our bins filled up with flattened out cardboard boxes, someone else came and used that pallet-mover thing to bring them out to get baled for recyling by someone named Bertha.

Seventh, someone else's job was to take the banana boxes, which we would bring over to them, and get those stacked up high to be on hand for those doing the sorting and packing up.

Lastly, someone packed up the sorted boxes, weighed them, and then someone else placed them onto pallets to be taken away and into the giant freezer warehouse. We started out slow, but that last hour we moved at a fast, efficient clip, going through 3-4 pallets I think.

Then of course at the end we all cleaned up. A special food-safe sanitizing solution was sprayed all over every surface, and a team of persons wiped everything down. I did some sweeping.

Lessons about our food system

4. Product recalls.

The watch list for foods that were absolutely prohibited from passing on to the community was alarmingly large. I vowed I would never eat food from some of those vendors ever again, and that I would re-dedicate myself to fresh and non-processed food at my house.

5. How to Help, What to Donate.

In making donations to a food pantry, consider what you yourself and your family might want to eat. Peanut butter is a good option to donate. Although we were working frozen food day, and I appreciate how critical well-packaged and well-handled frozen meat can be as a protein source, there is some disgusting stuff out there.

CAFB is performing not just a critical role in getting food to people who need it, but they also are a critical part of taking what a store might throw out and making sure it can still be used. Granted, a lot of waste still occurs in our food system, with a lot of what we were going through making its way still to the trash bins, but still. This is a huge help. Thus the name of the process: "product recovery."

Consume what you yourself buy.

6. Food insecurities, elitism.

At the required break time halfway into the shift, I talked with some other volunteers about our shock at what still had to get thrown away and the type of food donated. Some questioned why there was not healthier food being donated and sent out to the constituent agencies. Why not a simple meal of quinoa and fresh herbs, someone pondered aloud?

Well, even I am not cooking quinoa at home because -- I just don't. Would my 16-year-old son even eat it? Would I just throw it out (more waste--of my time and all the food items that would into it), because he is not eating it?

How do you help people evolve into different or "better" eating habits--or to eat non-industrial, processed foods? How do you fix bad incentives with food stamps subsidies?

I piped in about these being immense problems of infrastructure that very smart, passionate (but realistic) people are working on. These are not simple problems, these questions of who "should" be eating what and how we should be insisting more for healthier processes in how our food makes its way to grocery store shelves.

The debate, even our conversation, almost can't help but be tinged with a certain elitism. We forgot about privileged we are to eat as well as we do and to make the choice to buy a certain way. That privilege comprises not just the money to do so, but the knowledge about how and why it is worth shopping and preparing foods certain ways.

Cannot overstate how fun our CAFB staff leaders were for our shift. I could have sat and picked Tamara's brain for hours for more details on the whole process, the warehouse system, the product recalls, the safety rules, how and why they get the food they do from corporate institutions. The music selections were great during the work shift. She said at the end as she rounded us all up that on the Thursday night adult volunteer shift they play a lot of Bee Gees and Hall & Oates. How awesome does that sound.

7. Results

We unpacked, inspected, and sorted 2250 pounds of food, which will allow for 1875meals.

What a great bunch of volunteers. This is the "volunteer name tag ball."

I hear dry goods sorting is extremely complex and requires some serious attention to detail. I can't wait.

12/24/2013

As the holiday frenzy winds down I am looking forward to quieter times with family and friends, which reminds me of one of the most charming holiday parties this season: a good old-fashioned kaffeeklatsch.

We were told our invitations did not include an invitation to our significant others (i.e, the husbands of the married folk). As part of getting schooled in our friend the hostess's German heritage, we learned about the tradition of the kaffeeklatsch. Women would gather and enjoy each other's company, conversation (gossip) over cakes or other simpler sweets and coffee.

And so on a quiet Sunday afternoon, early in the holiday season, we arrived for the kaffeeklatsch. The living room was casual and set up with a yummy sugary pastry and china coffee cups.

The more formal living room just the next room over was set up to the nines, with more china, a china coffee pot, creamer, plates, silver knives and forks, and finely starched delicate linens with crochet. We were told that the more formal setting in here, contrasted to the casual living room à propos of the kaffeeklatsch, replicated the kaffee kuchen ritual. This ritual would generally not take place at home for the pastries were so fancy for this: one would generally go out for this ritual and have -- cake.

We got things started off right with French 75 cocktails. Then it was time to move in for the conversation and cake. We tried to adhere to the formality of German custom and call each other "Frau" this and that, but that did not last long.

I wanted a seat at the dining room table very badly and maneuvered myself to get one. I was just so tickled with the German carols, the china, the silver, and the sweets all around. And maybe the French 75 kicked in too by then.

My seat was especially prime because it allowed close proximity to the cakes for viewing and then serving. There were two tiny multi-layer cakes, one adorably perched on a cake stand. One was Black Forest Cake, of course; the other was Italian Wedding Cake.

The world is divided into those who in the food realm tend toward the salty and those that tend toward the sweets. I have always been in the salty group and rarely get too excited about cake.

I especially have never been fond of Black Forest Cake or anything that tried to combine cherries with chocolate (except for biscotti) because it's just way too sweet. To get into the German theme though, Frau Wiley here went for a slice of the Black Forest Cake.

We learned that whipped cream was a must: it would be served in a crystal bowl and just placed on the table for self-serving. It could be used to stir into your coffee (yes, please), but also for the cake.

Seriously? Whippped cream on the cake? Just right there, plop a dollop of it down on the already-frosted cake? Yes.

I have a newfound appreciation for German food traditions (I am mostly of German heritage after all).

The cake selection was superb, from our favorite local bakery Upper Crust Bakery, and the Black Forest Cake was not too sweet. It was just right. And a dollop of whipped cream made it even more festive and, well, lighter it seemed.

There followed, as we were seated so ladylike around the table, conversation and story-telling. It was delightful and so civilized. It was just plain old conversation with some new friends, and with some friends whom we see a lot of, but somehow we just don't seem to have enough space and time to really talk.

Here's to all my over-extended, stressed-out mom friends and mover-shaker single women friends: let's say yes to more times of treating outselves to fine china, silver -- and cake and whipped cream!

12/15/2013

My neighborhood has an adorable holiday tradition of "The Parents Party"--to distinguish it from the myriad of other awesome neighborhood parties (where we can drink and eat to excess and just walk home), such as "The Kids Party," where Santa makes an appearance and delivers presents to kids of a certain age.

One year that party was at my house, and Santa nearly fell down my stairs, and I never hosted that one again. Now that I've grown up and out of the Kids Party, I have been delighted to have had the Parents Party chez moi for three years in a row now. Last night was number 3.

Every year the dynamic is different: one year we were singing Journey and the Rolling Stones; next year we had jazz pianist Rich Harney and a drunken group selfie on my front porch; this past year (last night) we had a little bit of everything:, including two jazz musicians: vocals and piano--both women--and gracious underwriting of the live music element from my posse of music guys in the hood.

We started around 7pm for this annual potluckof food and wine, with folks wandering in around 7:30 and onward, and did not wind down really until midnight. I started to email my gratitude to our awesome group this morning, but decided why not turn it into a blog post. So here goes, along with a photo essay of some really phenomenal food:

Dear "RidgeleaMoms" (term of art given the composition of the group):

It was a delight to groggily wander downstairs – just now at 11 am – to find a clean house. I was particularly in awe of – seriously – the pristine nature of my floors. Not a single crumb. Tara really went to town with the sweeping. I learned a lot from her. Like I need an inside broom and an outside broom. And never shall one be used in place of the other. Never.

Thank you Amy for diving into my "drawer of shame" in the kitchen (the junk drawer) and helping me feel not so awful by announcing you found what you needed right away.

Given the deficit of energy and time I had because of work stuff this past week, I owe a big thank you to all of you and especially Molliefor assisting with the forward motion of the party getting planned and started last night. With her ample food donations, outsourcing the kitchen clean-up and other tasks – Mollie really helped make the fiesta happen. EVERYONE’s food was out of this world – in quantity and quality. And Gina’s flowers were totally over the top. Gorgeous!

Our help for the evening: Kendall takes coats, wine. Jazz vocalist Karen Tennison and pianist Peggy Stern starting out with jazzy rendition of "Let It Snow."

Thank you Grant – for helping to underwrite the music and providing the music as well. I look forward to our Godspell and Lionel Richie musical montage one year. (Remind me to stop drinking Mollie's cranberry ginger "Holiday Margaritas" earlier in the evening though if we do get that organized.)

And to Jesse as another music underwriter – thank you for counseling me on (1) music concert ideas for future house concerts and (2) my party anxiety issues and telling me to chill and take it down a few notches on my concern for making sure everything was going ok. It's just a neighborhood party after all.

Thank you Dan for (1) getting together for me at the last minute the slide show of our neighborhood "camping" trip to Port A – we’ll show those another time in better conditions (we thought about a screen outside with a loop of the slides); and (2) figuring out that despite your intense efforts my Dell laptop does not like to be connected to my TV. And of course the smoked salmon you made for the party, despite a very late night out the night before....much appreciated.

Soul food I got from new business owner and entrepreneur Leslie - seriously; this is ridiculously awesome macaroni and cheese. And her meatloaf with "brown gravy" was really a rich sauce with green bell peppers, onions, and sliced mushrooms. I overheard someone say this was the best meatloaf they had ever had. I agree. Thank you Foundation Communities for featuring Leslie and helping get the word out about her awesome food.

Thank you Mollie for over-doing with your generosity. This "salad" may become a mainstay in my party planning. So lovely with those parmesan shavings and all the overflowing abundance on that white serving piece.

It was good to see new faces – but with so much going on, I am sure I will not remember your names. Please don’t take it personally: I’m pushing 50 you know.

Funny how at one point in the week, it looked like we had pretty much no desserts that would be arriving for the potluck. I don't know why I worry about this. Ridgelea folks you kicked it up several notches with some bad ass desserts. (I'm talking to you in particular, Stephanie, and this Pavlova with raspberry coulis and fresh whipped cream)

Indeed, what would a neighborgood party be without Kevin and Stephanie bringing their signature homemade bread and Kevin outdoing his previous years' efforts by making exquisite artisanal chocolate.

Trying to fit that lemon meringue show-stopper pie in the fridge was quite a challenge. Thank you, Sally and Tim, for bringing that by yesterday afternoon, even if you could not make the party. We missed you!

Housekeeping matters:

For those of you who forgot your monies for the clean-up donation, feel free to drop that off at my house – in the black mailbox by my front door - when you get a minute. We fell short of our projections, so our neighborhood holiday party accountant (Mollie) told me.

Leftover: A lovely silver cake slicer, with ornate handle, and a straight edge for cutting and wider rest of the thingy for serving.

But seriously, thank you everyone for everything, including just enjoying yourself in my home. I love sharing it with you - even if you love to hang out in that narrow passageway near the icemaker.